Shadow of Death Read online

  “Yes,” said Toussaint, “but neither of them has had the supreme spiritual authority over the great number of centuries that is inherent in the Papacy.

  “While the Rastas will grant that, here and there, individual whites may be able to reform and break the chains of their condemnation before Jah, generally they believe that the white race—the oppressor—is in conspiracy with Satan and the Pope, both of whom they equate.”

  There followed a relatively long period of silence while Koesler and Koznicki finished their entrees and carefully considered all Toussaint had said.

  “All right, then,” said Koznicki at length, “suppose for the sake of argument we say that not all, but certain Rastafarians wish to kill the Pope out of vengeance for all they have had to suffer in those centuries of slavery. Why have they killed Cardinals Claret and Gattari?”

  “Bob supplied the answer when he grasped that the connection between the Cardinals was their position as probable papal candidates.

  “You see, since the assassination attempts on Pope Leo XIV, the security surrounding the Pope has been intense. And even before this increased security, he was by no means an accessible man. Now, he is, as much as can be said for any public figure, almost beyond physical attack, particularly at close range.

  “Since they perceive they cannot successfully assault the reigning Pope, this fanatic minority among the Rastafarians has decided to cut down the prime candidates for the Papacy. That is what I feared when Cardinal Claret was murdered. That is why I went to Toronto—to check with my sources there. What they had learned from infiltrating some Rasta meetings, and what my contacts here in Rome have told me, only reinforce my fears.”

  “You have contacts both in Toronto and Rome.” It was a question uttered as a statement by Inspector Koznicki.

  “If you had not been in my land, I would not be in yours.” Toussaint smiled. “There are Jamaicans and Haitians all over the world whose ancestors were forcibly snatched from their homelands in Africa. So, there are networks of voodoo and pocomania and Rastafarians all over the world. Only a worldwide network could attempt a plot of this magnitude.”

  There was another pause in the one-sided conversation during which their waiter cleared the table. Koznicki ordered a fruit and cheese plate, a bottle of Asti Spumante, and espresso for himself and Koesler.

  “If I am to understand correctly,” Koznicki said, “the book you mentioned yesterday . . .” he mentally groped for the title.

  “The Inner Elite,” Koesler prompted.

  “Yes. Thank you. That is not a definitive listing of papal candidates?”

  “Oh, no. There is no definitive list,” Koesler replied. “For one thing, any such list shortly becomes outdated. Cardinals grow old and die, new ones are appointed, and others are waiting in the wings. And, in any event, any listing of papabili has to be pure speculation, mixed with a few educated guesses. When the Cardinals enter the conclave in the Sistine Chapel, literally any one of them may emerge the next Pope. And frequently, the touts are wrong, hence the saying, ‘He who enters the consistory a Pope comes out a Cardinal.’ So much chemistry, even politics, is involved in the selection of a Pope.”

  “Some would even claim there is the influence of the Holy Spirit,” Toussaint said with a smile.

  Koesler returned the smile. “Some might so claim. And I would not deny it.

  “Let me put it this way, Inspector. In 1939, the Catholic world would have been very surprised if Eugenio Pacelli had not become Pope Pius XII. And in 1963, we would have been extremely surprised if Giovanni Battista Montini had not become Paul VI. On the other hand, in, let me see, I think 1903 or 1904, the Catholic world was stunned when Giuseppe Sarto became Pius X. And, in our own time, remember how astonished everyone was when in 1959 Angelo Roncalli became the great Pope John XXIII.

  “So you see, Inspector, predicting who will be the next Pope is not an exact science. But there sometimes are strong possibilities. And, right or wrong, somebody always has a list of papabili, as they’re called in Italian.”

  “Yes, I see,”said Koznicki. “But what I am driving at is that not only might the most informed list of papal candidates prove incorrect, but that there must be more than one list.”

  “I’m sure there is,” said Koesler. “I suppose the degree of probability would depend on the prognosticator’s credentials and, conceivably even on his track record.”

  “So,” Koznicki concluded, “it is possible, even probable, that the listing found in The Inner Elite could well be different from that of the Rastafarians.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s true,” said Koesler.

  “Then we are left with the indeed literally vital question of which Cardinals are on the Rastafarians’ list.”

  “That is correct, Inspector,” said Toussaint, helping himself to some cheese. “And that is my current undertaking: to try to get a copy of their list. And to discover, if at all possible, how, when, and where they intend to assassinate the men on that list.”

  “Ah,” Koznicki sat back in the booth. “Now, short of having no problem at all, that knowledge would put us in a perfect position—what Red Barber would call the catbird seat. When do you expect to obtain that list?”

  “I hope to get it sometime tonight or tomorrow,” Toussaint replied, “I pray I will have it before the new Cardinals take possession of their Roman parishes tomorrow evening. Until then, they have no scheduled public appearances. They should be in seclusion and relatively safe. But tomorrow evening, even those Cardinals ordinarily protected by their bureaucratic remoteness will be available to anyone who wishes access to them for whatever reason.”

  “We shall join you in that prayer.” said Koznicki.

  “And now, if you’ll excuse me,” Toussaint eased out of the booth and stood, “I will be on my way.” He checked his watch. “I must go now to meet my first contact.”

  After a hasty farewell, Toussaint left the restaurant.

  Koesler sipped the effervescent Asti.

  “I don’t suppose I ought, but somehow, after listening to Ramon, I feel sort of relieved. At least now we know who is responsible, as well as the motive.”

  “That is,” Koznicki responded, “if all our theories are correct.”

  “You doubt the conclusions Ramon reached?”

  “Remember, Father, I have been in this business long enough so that I’ve learned to keep an open mind on everything. Everything! It was that open mind that led me to give ear to Toussaint in the first place. And it is that same open mind that will not close off other hypotheses that could be just as possible as the ones we have proposed.”

  “Gee, I don’t know. It all sounded very logical to me.” Koznicki’s skepticism was contagious. Koesler felt his sense of confidence waver. “Whether or not he gets this list, I feel encouraged that Ramon will be with us and close to Cardinal Boyle.”

  “And I will be right there beside him.”

  Koesler turned to look directly at the Inspector. “You don’t trust Ramon!”

  “Things are seldom what they seem.”

  7.

  Once a Cardinal is created the Pope plants a metaphorical ecclesial magnet in the man. A magnet that keeps drawing that Cardinal back to Rome.

  At the drop of a red hat, the Pope can call a consistory, which is a solemn meeting of Cardinals convoked and presided over by the pontiff. The death of a Pope, of course, summons the Cardinals into conclave to come up with a replacement.

  And the Cardinal is symbolically given a Roman parish. He becomes titular pastor of said parish. From that point on, he may do as he wishes with said parish. He may treat it with benign neglect or take a paternal interest in it.

  His Eminence Mark Cardinal Boyle was about to take symbolic possession of St. John XXIII parish near Monte Mario. It was Saturday, May 3, early evening of a soft Roman spring. At 6:00, there was still plenty of daylight.

  This was to be the final ceremony of the ceremony-filled week. At the conclusion of this
rite, all the newly created Cardinals would be free to leave Rome. If, indeed, as was the case with most, their actual assignment was somewhere in the world beside the Eternal City.

  The usual buses that had ferried the tourists from one event to another had done it again. Except that now, for the first time, all the buses of all the tourists from all over the world were not all going to the same place. For the first time this week, each Cardinal was going his separate way. And wherever each Cardinal went, his entourage was sure to go.

  Many in the Detroit contingent felt exposed to be alone with each other rather than rubbing shoulders with Germans, Dutch, Spanish, French, Portuguese, and even Californians, Missourians, and New Yorkers.

  St. John XXIII was a comparatively recently constructed church, just as St. John XXIII was a recently canonized saint. But somehow, everything in Rome, even recently constructed buildings, seemed old. It was almost as if Rome’s antiquity were infectious. As yet, St. John XXIII church had not fallen victim to Rome’s communicable dry rot, but there was every indication that it would.

  One lesson immediately learned was that the Detroit contingent by itself did not come close to filling this church. The second lesson was that either the parish had not properly publicized this ceremony or that its parishioners were not crazy about going to church more than once a week. It was clear from all the recognizable faces that no one was present but Detroiters.

  Koesler and the Koznickis were seated about midway from the front of the church. Organ music was playing softly. Koesler was gazing absently at Joan Blackford Hayes. As he had already observed, she did resemble Elizabeth Taylor so it was pleasant gazing at her.

  “How are you coping with our water shortage, Father?” Koznicki asked.

  Koesler emerged from his daydream. “Not very well! When I saw that sign in the lobby this noon that due to construction work outside, the water would be turned off for a few hours, it never entered my head that by the time we left this evening, it still wouldn’t have been turned back on.

  “You have no idea of all the things you depend on water for until you lose it. Not only washing, showering, and drinking, and brushing your teeth—but flushing. I can’t believe we’re paying to stay there—they should be paying us! And as for our concierge, who up till now has been very helpful, once the water was turned off he caught our bus driver’s disease and forgot how to speak English.”

  Koznicki, smiling, shook his head.

  Funny, thought Koesler, how easy it is to get used to talking in church. In the good old days, talking in church had ranked as a very common venial or lesser sin. He could recall when, as a young boy, each of his confessions had included many disobediences and not a few talkings in church. Must be some sort of hangover from times past, he thought. It’s still rare to see people talking in church. Generally, even when nothing is going on in a Catholic church, people—even whole families—just sit there, saying nothing.

  But not in Rome. St. Peter’s resembled more a noisy museum than a church. And even here, in the more typical setting of a parish church, nearly everyone was talking to someone—albeit softly. He wondered whether silence in church would be a thing of the past for these pilgrims once they returned home.

  He looked at his watch. 6:20. Funny, too, how you could get used to things starting late. It had taken less than a week in Rome to be infected by that domani attitude. It must, he thought, be a variant of Murphy’s Law. Something indigenous to Latinism, perhaps. If it’s important, it will find you. If it’s important, it will still be important tomorrow. If you don’t do it, relax; neither will anyone else.

  Koesler’s stream of consciousness ran low and then out.

  Suddenly, he was thrust back into reality. The soft dreamy organ music faded, to be replaced by strong, full-powered chords. Everyone was brought to his or her feet. It was the processional.

  “Ecce sacerdos magnus, qui in diebus suis placuit Deo,” the choir sang. “Behold the great high priest, who, in his days, pleased the Lord.” The traditional choral greeting for a bishop.

  All turned to the rear of the church to view the entrance of the procession. Instead of candle-bearing and cross-carrying acolytes, an elderly priest was jumping up and down, waving his arms frantically. Obviously a false start. But the choir sang on as the congregation had a good laugh.

  “You were saying. Inspector, that Rome is a walking, talking cinéma verité?” said Koesler.

  They chuckled.

  Shortly, the choir director, who was himself searching for the missing procession, caught sight of the leaping monsignor. The singing stopped and the organ returned to soft, soporific music.

  Gradually, lulled once more by the soft meandering organ music, Koesler’s mind slipped into neutral. He had drifted even beyond the innocent contemplation of Joan Blackford Hayes into shimmering recollective montages of quiet, peaceful visits to various small churches of the past.

  His head began to nod. He had almost dozed off when he was abruptly jarred wide awake. Someone had slipped into the pew and knelt next to him. It was Ramon Toussaint, in lightweight black suit and roman collar. An ordained deacon, Toussaint was as entitled to wear such clerical garb as was a priest.

  At one time, not that many years before, Catholic clerics were seldom out of uniform. Many were uniformed at all times except bed, bath, beach, or golf course. With a few sensible exceptions, Koesler was of that school. Most current younger priests were seldom in uniform. Some, reportedly didn’t even own a black suit, let alone a roman collar.

  There was no doubt that Toussaint was a striking figure of a man. And that was especially true when in clerical garb. The black suit seemed to streamline his tightly muscled body. The immaculate roman collar was a narrow, neat band made whiter by being sandwiched between the black suit and his dark chocolate complexion. Close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair crowned his chiseled features.

  Having made his prayer, Toussaint sat back in the pew next to Koesler. The priest introduced him to Wanda Koznicki. With Koesler and the Inspector between them, there was no point in attempting anything as physical as a handshake, so Wanda and Toussaint merely smiled and nodded at each other.

  After a few moments, Koznicki leaned across Koesler and asked, “Were you able to get it? The list?”

  Toussaint shook his head slowly. “No. It is a matter of timing. My sources assure me they will have it before we leave Rome tomorrow. Apparently, the Rastafarians involved in this plot have only one item that is their equivalent of our ‘Top Secret,’ and that is this list of papabili.”

  Koznicki sat back with a worried look. A criminal investigation, he had often thought, was somewhat comparable to a football game played in inclement weather. Coaches seemed to agree that competing on a wet or slippery field favored the offensive team over the defensive unit. Particularly on pass plays, the receivers knew which receiving routes they would run. The defenders, on the other hand, were forced to react to the receivers’ moves. The unsure footing enhanced the odds the receiver would be able to outmaneuver the defender.

  In the realm of crime, particularly in a premeditated attempt at homicide, the assailant knew well in advance of the event who the target would be. The law enforcement officer usually could only react to the assailant’s action. In such a situation, ordinarily there could be comparatively little crime prevention. Only a great deal of post-factum crime investigation.

  It was one thing to suspect that Cardinal Boyle was the target of a murder plot, quite another to be certain of it. The measure of security that it would be possible to impose on a strong-willed Cardinal and possible to elicit from a limited number of carabinieri would be far different depending on the degree of certainty one could establish.

  Koznicki wished he knew.

  Koesler was about to divert Toussaint with an account of the previous false alarm that had triggered the nonprocession of dignitaries when, once again, the soft music tapered off and all the stops were opened.

  “Ecce sacerdos magnus,”
the choir poured out in rich polyphony, “qui in diebus suis placuit Deo. Ideo, jurejurando fecit illum Dominus crescere in plebem suam.”

  Once again, the congregation stood and swiveled toward the rear of the church. There were indications this was no dry run.

  Proof positive was the presence of television. Two camera crews were grinding away on the steps outside the church’s front door.

  This phenomenon quite naturally caused its concomitant phenomenon: the gathering of a crowd.

  Drawn solely by the magnetic power of television, people began first to cluster on the street outside the church. If TV cameras were present, this must be an Event. Thus, as the cameras retreated into the church, covering the entering procession, so then did the crowds enter.

  TV had a little crowd/Its mind was blank as snow/And everywhere that TV went/The crowd was sure to go.

  There they were, the invited Detroit delegation, in full strength, such as it was. Yet it fell woefully short of filling the church.

  Koesler was put in mind of the parable Jesus told of the large dinner feast that fell far short of standing room only. In that case, the master of the house sent his servant on a mission, bidding him, “Go out into the highways and along the hedgerows and force them to come in. I want my house to be full.”

  If Jesus were on earth today, Koesler thought, he would not use a servant in his story. He would more probably say, “Call a press conference, make sure the local TV channels show up. Then my house will be full.”

  As the bystanders filed in in a seemingly endless line, they all appeared to have the same expression: I don’t know what’s going on in here, but it must be important.

  With the Rastafarian threat uppermost in their minds, Koesler, Koznicki, and Toussaint were alert to the presence of blacks in the crowd. There were, they were somewhat uneasy to note, quite a few black men in the congregation. Some were well-dressed. Some wore menial garb. Some, evidently African seminarians studying for the priesthood in Rome, wore cassocks in a variety of colors. None seemed overtly dangerous. But who could tell?